


Rumpy Pumpy

by Val_Creative



Series: 31 Days of Kinktober 2019 [15]
Category: The Ritual (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Being Lost, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Forest Sex, Forests, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Overstimulation, Quiet Sex, Romantic Friendship, Tenderness, Tent Sex, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: During this hike, Northern Sweden has an odor of light rain and manure to it. Luke tries to not think it, think about anything else but Hutch’s breath rattling, hitting Luke’s cheek in hot, sharp bursts.





	Rumpy Pumpy

*

They've been lost off Kungsleden for nearly a day. King's Trail. In the middle of Sarek National goddam Park. Luke doesn't feel much _kingly_ with these deep, bloody puncture wounds existing on his chest. It hurts like a stonking twat.

Hutch examines him with a lit, battery-powered torch. His brow furrows.   


"You'll be alright," he concludes, patting reassuringly over Luke's sternum.

"None of us are."

Luke doesn't mean to mutter it so helplessly, but it's fucked—it's all so _fucked_. They're lost, hungry and cold. Dom's blaming him for Rob. Phil's having a mental breakdown. The trees are moving on their own and full of shadows. Pagan or nordic, or whatever the fuck they _are_, symbols everywhere. But, Hutch—thank the lord, _Hutch_ seems to have it together even after pissing himself.

"Oi, none of that shite," Hutch says scolding, patting Luke's cheek roughly instead. "Bugger off with the pessimism. I mean it."

"You bugger off," Luke offers a half-smile, choose to not pull back on his two-tone long sleeve. Hutch's plenty warm, crouching over him, grinning mischievously and rolling Luke with him on the sleeping bag. They can't make too much noise or wake the others. It's Luke's small, olive-green tent and the torch's beam makes the orange interior seem wide and more reflective.

Hutch's fingers rake into Luke's curls, gripping on and easing his face up. His mouth nibbles gently on his jaw, up to Luke's ear.

Northern Sweden has an odor of light rain and manure to it. Luke tries to not think it, think about anything else but Hutch's breath rattling, hitting Luke's cheek in hot, sharp bursts. Hutch frees his prick, just as Luke shoves down his trousers, lying sideways and allowing the other man to drive himself between Luke's thighs. He parts them a little, craving the slick, agitated friction of Hutch rubbing up under his throbbing, clothed bollocks, fucking him, groaning behind his lips when Luke clenches.

They need to survive this rubbish _fucking_ nightmare. Somehow.

*


End file.
